Mockingbird
by Pollydoodle
Summary: Fury, believing the world faces a threat from Asgard, decides to try to enlist The Mockingbird, a notorious escape artist, confidence trickster and thief. What he gets is not exactly what he bargained for, and the threat they face is bigger than any might have guessed. Romance, adventure & Asgard, with all that could entail. You ready?
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One. **

The shadows were deep and unforgiving; a man could get lost in them. Exactly the way he liked it. Exactly what he wanted – _needed _– tonight. That the night itself was troubled and on the edge of a storm only helped his purpose. People tended to stay indoors during a storm, tended to shut the curtains, bolt the doors and pay less attention. Footsteps, his footsteps, were all but silent as he moved closer to the door. He hummed under his breath as he moved, cat-like in the darkness.

The museum was silent, save from the slight padding of his muted feet as he weaved his way carefully through the cases. Ever cautious not to touch the glass, he slipped in and out of the gloom between the exhibits. He knew roughly where he might find his target, had at least some inkling but he still had a sense of cat and mouse. He assumed, as usual, he would be the cat.

"And if that mockingbird don't sing-" He broke off, smiling to himself. "Well, that's not an option."

With that, he caught a movement, the barest hint that most humans would miss, in the gloom, stepped forward smartly and loosed an arrow drawn from the quiver strapped to his back. It thunked into the wall opposite, inches from his target, which whipped around at the noise only to find that he had followed.

Wide blue eyes matched his, and he registered a cloud of dark hair framing a small face, the young girl trembled as the arrow still quivered in the wall beside her. Thick-rimmed glasses, white shirt and tartan skirt shivered under his steady gaze, a name badge pinned haphazardly to her chest shouted to him in bright blue lettering that her name was Sarah and she was happy to assist. She was small, and looked utterly petrified.

He stuttered out an apology as he backed away. She raised a hand to her glasses, pulling them away from her face. "Ca-can I _help_ you, sir?" She managed, slow Southern vowels spilling from her lips, still staring at him as though he were about to kill her. Which, in fairness, he had been fully prepared to carry out just moments before.

He stepped back, dropping his bow by his side and running a hand through his hair with the other. She was still backed against the wall, afraid to move, clutching at her glasses with both hands at her chest. "Uh no, no miss – my apologies." He reverted to stock civilian interaction training. "I didn't mean to startle you, we've been called to check out the building and ensure that there are no irregularities." He pasted an all-American good cop smile across his face to smooth the words.

She breathed out as he finished, he realized that she had been holding it for some time – waiting, he assumed, either for assurance or action. It was the only movement she seemed prepared to make, despite his explanation. She blinked, slowly, and moved her glasses back to her face. She darted a glance briefly at the arrow, embedded in the wall to her right. He jerked forward – she breathed in sharply as his face passed by hers, he almost paused - and wrenched it back out.

"Uh, thank you for your co-operation, miss." He tipped the arrow towards her in a show of deference, inclining his head slightly as he did so. She made no reply, nervously tugging at the end of her shirt and dropping her gaze to the floor. He took that as his cue to back away and leave. When he looked back, just seconds later, the girl had vanished.

His earpiece crackled and spat into his ear. "Barton," It barked, piercing into the silence. "Is the target secure?"

"Negative, sir." He muttered, scanning the corridor as he did so. "False alarm."

"False alarm?" The ear piece spluttered. "In what capacity?"

"Civilian." He answered, passing by the alarm system control panel.

"What _civilian_ would be in this building at this time of night?"

"Sir-" He broke off. The alarm system was disabled. The _alarm _system was _disabled_.

"Barton!" The deep booming from the earpiece affected him not, he broke into a sprint, bow at the ready and that horrible voice banging on the front of his mind, berating him for being so, so, _stupid_.

He checked rooms as he ran, allowing his superior sight to work as it should have done earlier. Barely stopping, scanning, moving on. Room after room after room until-

"That's it, princess. Just turn around. Slowly." He hadn't noticed any weaponry about her person earlier but then again, he'd clearly seen what she wanted him to see at the time. The slight figure in front of him paused, shrugged and turned about to face him, spinning on her heel.

"Princess, is it now?" She said playfully, and he realized that she'd even faked the accent. British, he guessed. London, most likely. Well-spoken, from what he knew of the place.

"You're a long way from home, sweetheart." He said levelly, prepared for anything she might – literally – throw at him. He stared at her, taking in as much as he could this time. She was small, barely stacking 5'2". Slight; well, she'd need to be, in her line of work. Dark hair, blue eyes, the ghost of a smile playing around pink lips and one arched eyebrow as she gazed back at him.

"Home is where your rump rests." She said lightly, and took a step forward. Wrong move, sweetheart. The arrow tip flashed up faster than even he'd really expected, the point resting neatly inches from her forehead. "Nice bow," she breathed, making the wise decision not to move any closer. Or indeed, at all.

"Be nicer not to use it." He dead panned. "Be nicer still if you'd come with me quietly, little lady."

"Little. Lady." She echoed, and seemed to be trying not to laugh. "Hey, why not? Be easier all 'round, huh."

_Why so simple? _His eyes narrowed. He did not lower the bow. "And you are playing what game, exactly?"

At this, she did actually laugh out loud. "No pleasing some people, is there?"

"You're not what I was expecting."

"And you were expecting, what, exactly?"

He stayed resolutely silent.

Her lips formed a perfect, pink, 'o' as she breathed out, knowingly. "Not a _man_, you mean." It wasn't a question.

He had the feeling he was somehow having the tables turned on him, he wasn't sure how and, more disconcertingly, he didn't mind.

She inched closer; he didn't drop the bow but made no other move. Serious blue eyes fixed upon his own, and she reached up to his wrist – laying her fingers slowly one by one against his skin. There was a flash of silver in the dark, a sharp snapping sound and she stepped back, ruefully.

"You move quickly for a first date, most men I know don't crack out the handcuffs until at least the third." She tipped her head to one side, regarding both him and the addition to her slim wrist.

"Let's go, princess." He tugged her arm, firmly but ultimately gently. No sense causing a scene if it could be avoided. For whatever reason – and he didn't trust it, whatever it might turn out to be – she seemed willing to come quietly and that was good enough for his purposes at that moment.

"Are you sure I don't have the right to an attorney? Or silence? What is it you boys usually say?" She grinned up at him, seemingly unbothered by her current predicament. He noted that. She'd almost escaped him once. This one was smart, and smart usually meant dangerous. Sometimes it meant useful. Time would have to tell.

"That would be the police, sweetheart." He walked her smartly towards the side entrance; backup were waiting alongside the museum in one of the loading bays. It would be easy enough to bundle her into the van if she had differing plans once outside. He'd learned not to underestimate small women, though. Lord knows Romanoff had taught him that lesson squarely.

For the first time, she looked as though she wasn't in control of the conversation. Her face snapped up to his, just about managing to school her expression into something akin to nonchalance as her eyes met his. Anyone else would probably have missed the flash of _almost_ fear in them. "If you're not the police, then who the hell are you?"

"I'm from the Strategic Homeland, Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division."


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: A few notes; Mockingbird isn't strictly an OC in Marvel, but is (currently at least) to the film universe. However, she's got a backstory that's a) not all that great and b) has changed multiple times so I've taken the liberty of re-imagining it for my own purposes. **

It had been a week.

A week of repeated interrogation, a week of smiles and falsities, a week of absolutely nothing to show for the operation. The girl seemed quite happy to go round after round with whoever Fury wanted to throw at her, talking a great deal but ultimately saying nothing.

What she had done, however, was relieve his staff of pens, phones, watches, wallets and, on one occasion, freedom. Even Barton had to smile when they played the tapes back – exasperated no doubt at the word play and evasive tactics, Agent 12 had leaned forward suddenly across the table towards the girl, which turned out to be a bad move on his part.

Standard show of strength, standard interrogation technique designed to intimidate. She'd pulled back simultaneously and, somehow, Agent 12 had ended up handcuffed to the table with the girl flattened against the one way mirror. Laughing.

Fury was teetering on the edge of declaring it all a mistake, and handing her international ass to the Brits. He doubted very much there was anything they'd be able to do with her; he was confident that they still had her incarcerated was due in part to the hefty reinforcements S.H.I.E.L.D. had as necessity and in no smaller part to her own curiosity.

He reset the tapes again and again; almost spitting in anger as he watched – for the fifth time – the successful pick pocketing of one of his best agents.

She would be an asset, no doubt. He'd a list of her escapades; either declared or attributed, as long as his arm. She was smart, apparently extremely flexible and now half his staff could attest to her dexterity. All skills he very much found himself in need of right now. But how to get her onside?

He drummed his fingers absentmindedly on the table. Realistically, he had one card left in the pack on this one. But Romanoff, skilled as she was, currently resided half the world away on a different assignment.

"Sir?"

He looked up. Agent Barton stood in the doorway, bow strapped, as ever, to his back. He tipped his head to the younger man, silently motioning him into the room proper. He pressed fast forward, then back, then pause. The cameras just about picked up the moment her deft little fingers nipped into Hill's pocket to relieve her of the phone she kept there.

He slammed his hand down on the table, exasperated by it all. Here was the perfect set of skills, here was exactly what he needed right now – and surely would in the future – and yet, he had no idea how to get at it. He was slightly concerned he might be going after another Stark. He really didn't need another one of those.

"Can I try, sir?"

He'd forgotten Barton was even there.

"I might be able to get through." The archer continued. "After all, Natasha …" He trailed off. He'd gone off book for that one, but overall it had worked out in the end. Slightly sticky at the start, but you can't have everything, he reasoned. And this one, as clever as she might be, was no Natasha.

Fury raised both hands, palms out. "At this point, I'd be happy to get Banner in and see his _friend_ wipe the grin off her face."

"I don't think that'll be necessary, sir."

"Perhaps not, but it would sure ease my mental state right now." Fury replied. "Go on, Barton. Do your worst."

She looked up at the door opened. Said nothing. Her eyes followed him across the room as he reached up to the CCTV and deftly pulled the cable from the back of it. The red light abruptly stopped blinking.

He turned back towards her, taking in her small form as she gazed back at him. Not exactly defiantly, but there was a certain tilt to her head that didn't suggest full co-operation would be forthcoming. He sighed, pulled the free chair back from the other side of the table and flung himself into it.

"You remember me?" He asked quietly.

"A girl rarely forgets the man who handcuffs her." She replied glibly. "Or one certainly shouldn't, at least." He could feel her eyes on him, knew without doubt she was drinking in as much as she could – assessing, weighing, working out what she could get away with. He wasn't sure how far he could let her go and still stay in control. He changed the subject.

"You know why we're here? Why we want you?" He grabbed the water jug and poured a glass. He paused, then pushed it over to the girl. She regarded it with a certain amount of suspicion. He shrugged and poured himself one, downing it in seconds.

"Strangely, no one from the secret government organization has been overly communicative on that front." She replied with a certain amount of sarcasm and reached out tentatively to pull the glass closer to herself, still not taking a drink.

"Cut the hostility."

"Your _organization _has kept me here, against my will, for a week – without given reason."

He put his elbows on the table and stared across at her. "You were about to rob a museum before I took you in."

"I really don't think you have any grounds to prove that, do you?" She grinned back at him, knowing full well they'd been unable to find anything of value on her person or, indeed, nothing specifically not belonging to her.

"You don't tend to find many innocent parties in the Smithsonian after hours, sweetheart."

"Back on friendly terms, are we?" She leaned across the table towards him, and he found the hairs on his arms start to raise as she did so. The handcuffs, still firmly – he hoped – around her wrists, clanked against the dark oak table as she rested her hands in front of her. She almost looked innocent. He slapped himself mentally.

"That depends." He answered, smoothly.

She raised an eyebrow. "On what?"

"On you."

"Really." She breathed, eyes on him. "How about you just enlighten me as to what it is your Strategically Placed Homeland Bureau of Illegal Interrogation wants and then we can go from there?" She raised both hands up as if to say, _how about it?_

"Okay." She looked mildly surprised at his reaction. He reached behind him and grabbed a brown dossier folder from the shelf, flipped it open and began reading aloud.

"Roberta 'Bobbi' Morse; born in England, London to be precise, the East End to be even more precise."

She rolled her eyes. "And? It's clearly not news to you and, I can assure you, it's not news to me either."

"Born 1985 to parents unknown," he continued as though she hadn't spoken. "Educated at the Benedictine Convent School for Girls, disappeared from both home and school at age 17. Reappeared in Budapest as assistant to magician 'The Great Ka-Zar', aged 20. Disappeared again aged 21 and has not been heard of since."

He snapped the dossier shut and continued. "The Mockingbird robberies have both scandalized and enthralled the world, leading newspapers to speculate that the Mockingbird moniker must be applied to a whole team of thieves working in partnership. But that's not true, is it Bobbi?"

She regarded him for a moment. "You didn't know all that in the museum – you weren't expecting me." It wasn't so much a question as a statement, but he answered it anyway.

"We've had a week to work on filling in the blanks." He paused, opening the dossier once more. The intelligence operatives had located a school photo of the girl, and she stared back at him from the page shyly. The uniform made her look absurdly young. He shut it again and looked up at the older Bobbi Morse. "You weren't what we were expecting, but you are what we need."

She laughed. "And what would that be?"

"A thief, an escape artist, a clever mind and a willingness to serve the country."

"You forgot yourself; this isn't my country." She reminded him sharply, but there was a glimmer of interest in her light blue eyes as she regarded him across the table. "Why would I want to have anything to do with it?"

"You want the challenge." He answered. "I've read the newspaper reports, I've seen the coverage – I've seen the places you've broken into and the things you've stolen – they're barely what you'd call valuable sometimes. You just want to beat something smart, you want to prove you're better than the system, you want to _win._"

In his passion, he'd leaned across the table and was almost face to face with the girl, she'd leaned forward also. Eye to eye they gazed at each other, her eyes slightly narrowed. "So what's _your_ challenge, then?" She whispered.

He opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by the door crashing open and bouncing against the wall, hinges groaning under the stress of being forced open so brutally. A dark-haired man in an expensive suit stood, visibly fuming, in the doorway. He looked down at Bobbi over his sunglasses, completely ignoring Barton.

"So this is the kid that broke in Stark Tower, huh?"


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I trust poeple are enjoying the story, it's been a while since I've written anything seriously so I'm trying to get into the swing of it again. This one's a bit longer, introduces more characters. The first two were a bit slower, setting the scene - I think this gets more into the story and rounds out the characters and plot for you a bit. **

**Chapter Three. **

"This, this –" Stark was momentarily lost for words in his anger. "_Delinquent_," – he paused for effect – "broke into my tower and you want to recruit her?" Sunglasses discarded, suit jacket thrown haphazardly across the back of Fury's chair, the man was close to meltdown. Fury was silently thankful that Morse had not thought it clever to break into Banner's lab at any point. At least that he knew of.

"_Mister_ Stark," He said warningly. "How I run my agency is hardly any of your business."

"You won't be saying that when she steals government secrets, Fury." Stark retorted, flinging himself into Fury's chair and pushing his sunglasses back onto his face. His legs crossed at the ankle and resting on the desk, he leaned back and regarded Fury. He was riled and he was going to make damn well sure Fury was, too.

"You'd be the expert on that subject, Tony." The older man replied pointedly. "And apparently I have to put up with your presence."

"_Caustic_." Stark replied, now leaning to his left and attempting to open the – locked – drawers. Undeterred, he reached inside his suit jacket and retrieved a thin metal jimmy. Fury rolled his eyes. The only thing in the drawer worth having was his lunch, but he wasn't about to tell Stark_. Let him focus on something else for a minute_.

"Why do you have a problem with that eventuality, Tony?" Fury poured himself a whiskey. It was still only eleven-thirty in the morning but he felt that, all things considered, he'd earned it. He did not offer any to Stark. "You don't believe in S.H.I.E.L.D., you don't believe in authority, you seem to think rules were purpose made for you to break them – why, frankly I'd expect you to be her champion."

The dark haired man was now hanging dangerously out of the chair, tongue to one side as he fiddled with the lock on the drawer. "I'm really not sure why I'm having to repeat myself, Fury. She. Broke. In. to. My. Tower." He whistled as the lock finally ceded to his ministrations and popped open. He sat up momentarily, pointing the jimmy at Fury as he spoke. "Do you have any idea what it's like to have someone poking around in your private space?"

"I have literally_ no_ idea." He replied drily. "Please, do enlighten me."

Stark caught the look thrown his way as he pocketed the apparatus. "You know me. It's different." With that, he bounced up, grabbing his jacket as he did so. As he passed Fury on his way to the door, he paused and pointed a finger at the other man, glaring over his sunglasses as he did so. "If you're not going to listen to reason, I won't be held responsible for the fallout. And I will be standing at the back proclaiming loudly to all who will listen and several who will be trying their damnedest not to that _I told you so_."

"It's because she bested your system, isn't it?"

Stark paused at the door, his back to Fury. He spun on his heel to face the Director. His jaw was clenched. "JARVIS is unbeatable. It shouldn't have happened."

"So your actual problem is that she showed up your security?" Fury barked out a laugh. "Stark, if I were you, I'd be getting her on your staff, not storming in here shouting the odds."

"It was a momentary glitch which has since been fixed." He'd been up half the night, Pepper had gone to bed highly irritated with his single-mindedness but, yes, eventually the loophole in the system had been located and – more importantly – eradicated. JARVIS had been updated to the strongest security setting he could devise.

"In fact – how did you know we'd gone after her, Tony?" Fury asked, not really wanting to hear the answer.

"Rogers." Stark replied cheerfully. "How he was a top-secret soldier, I'll never know. Can't keep stuff to himself to save his life." He grinned up at Fury nonchalantly.

Which meant it was far more likely that Stark had hacked the servers to get at what he wanted and found something else in its stead. Fury did a quick mental check on the other projects currently on-going. Nothing particularly sensitive that he could think of, at least insofar as Stark was concerned. Thank god there hadn't been an update on the file in regards to-

"So when are we expecting Triple-H to arrive, anyway?"

Fury groaned inwardly.

"You've pissed off people in high places, kid." Barton chewed gum and inspected his hands as he waited patiently for Bobbi to finish up in the bathroom, one foot resting behind him against the door. After Stark's outburst, Fury had pulled the agitated billionaire out of the interview room and sent Barton to get the girl washed up. _It might have been the best thing to happen for her. Fury put up with Stark for what he called – often, Barton noticed, through gritted teeth - the greater good but the Director could be a contrary man and the theatrics could push him over to the other side. _

"It's part of my unique skill set," she replied, over the gushing water. "Is that something you lot need?"

He bit back a laugh and stayed silent. He could smell the lavender soap, even through the door. It was … nice. He didn't make a habit of hanging around bathrooms whilst women were showering inside but he'd smelt the soap Natasha used before. Carbolic. Simple, functional, got the job done with as little amount of fuss possible. Much like Natasha herself, actually.

The shower stopped, and he could hear wet footprints pad cautiously across the tiled floor. A beat passed and then – "What the hell is _this?_" He chuckled, assuming the answer. The door flew back, and him with it. He caught himself and turned to face her.

She had a towel thrown around herself somewhat haphazardly, hitched awkwardly and slightly dangerously on one lower end as the other side was clutched tightly in hand. Wet hair plastered around her face and shoulders dripped on the corridor carpet. His eyes tried to betray him but she gave him little option as she thrust something dark into his face.

"What's this?" She demanded, waving it enthusiastically in front of him.

"Standard issue S.H.I.E.L.D. suit," he replied, taking a half-step back.

"I'm not wearing this," she retorted. "Have you seen it? What sort of-"

"It's that suit or your birthday suit, sweetheart." He cut in. "It's all we have."

Her lips snapped shut and she stared at him. "This is not _normal_." She declared, turning on her heel and shutting the door smartly. He grinned and shook his head, resuming his previous position. Tipped his head to the Captain as he passed by, presumably heading for the briefing room, considering idly as he did so what Rogers would make of Bobbi.

_He'd not be too convinced by the addition of a known and self-declared thief, that's for sure. _Like Stark said all too often, Rogers wasn't really like the rest of them. Not so much because he was out of time, but because he had a strict set of morals that he lived by, almost without question. The others, himself included, had a more flexible view of the world.

The door swung back again, slightly more demurely this time. He glanced behind him, she was wearing the suit. _Was there a touch of regret that she'd not opted for defiance on this one? _He shoved that thought very firmly away, down past unimportant thoughts like tomorrow's shopping requirements and deliberately filed things like that one time in Moscow. _Not gonna help, Barton. _

Still – and he allowed himself this one, fleeting, acknowledgement – this option wasn't exactly _bad_.

Form fitting dark lycra, neck to ankle to wrist. Built to withstand most temperatures, fit most abilities – and some of the newer additions to the team had really tested the outfitters, but they'd risen to the challenge where they could – offered at least some protection against bullets. Overall, it was a practical piece of kit. It wasn't _specifically_ that thought that ran through his mind as he regarded her.

She held her wrists out to him, thrusting them together and looking up at him somewhat petulantly from under eyelashes that still had droplets of water clinging to them. He raised an eyebrow at her in confusion.

"Handcuffs?" She questioned. "Is this not our thing?"

_He buried that one, too. Right past Budapest._ "Uh, no - we're good." He failed to mention that her particular suit also featured a built in tracking device, so, coupled with her proven ability to escape from handcuffs, they were relatively redundant as an option.

She looked somewhat suspicious and he supposed he couldn't exactly blame her, but fell in line beside him as he moved off down the corridor. He watched her from the corner of his eye, she was clearly taking in everything they walked past. Luckily, there wasn't much to see on this level. Some rooms, mostly empty, the odd office with intelligence analysts diligently working to locate possible threats, potential allies. And then-

"Hey, Hawk." A brunette in glasses, bobble hat and clutching steaming coffee appeared in vision.

"Oh, uh, hey Darcy." He stopped, politely, Bobbi drawing to a halt beside him. She was looking at Darcy with unveiled curiosity. He couldn't blame her. He'd only met Darcy officially a few times, but she was a bit – well. A bit _Darcy_.

Presumably she'd be here today with Dr. Foster ahead of the meeting. She wasn't exactly S.H.I.E.L.D. material, and she didn't exactly fit in – well, anywhere. But she was part of Foster's team and as the doctor resolutely refused to leave Darcy behind.

"Why doesn't she have to wear the suit?" Bobbi asked pointedly. He nodded to Darcy who looked taken aback, grabbed Bobbi's arm and steered her around the confused looking assistant.

"She's not really part of S.H.I. ." He said, firmly, pushing her into a faster pace.

"I don't recall having signed anything binding myself." She muttered, but allowed him to pull her along.

Fury sat, pensive, at the head of the table. Stark to his left, fiddling with his phone. Rogers on his right, back ramrod straight and awaiting further instruction. The two of them were exhausting for entirely different reasons. He massaged his forehead and wondered whether he would judge himself too harshly on sinking a second whiskey before 1pm.

The door opened, cautiously, and Barton's head appeared from behind it. Fury motioned him in. Morse followed after and he reach a hand to Stark's elbow, silently warning him not to cause trouble. Rogers shot up and pulled out the chair next to himself for the girl. She threw a questioning look over her shoulder at Barton, who shrugged. She settled herself in the chair, keeping her eyes on Rogers.

"So, we've got Encino Man, Katniss and the Pink Panther, who else are we waiting on?" Stark asked, not looking up from his phone. Fury bit back an answer, reminding himself that Stark thrived on pushing buttons and riling other people. Rogers stared resolutely ahead, apparently having come to the conclusion that he would never understand Tony's references and electing not to bother trying.

"One more." Fury relied.

The door opened and a serious looking brunette appeared.

"Two more." He amended. "Doctor Foster, please take a seat." He gestured to empty chair next to Stark. "Is he?"

"It's hard to tell, exactly, but the readings are going way up so I would expect soon." She replied, confidently, and waved a small device at him. It had wires and lights and looked exceedingly home-made.

Bobbi looked around herself. She didn't understand these people, had no idea why a doctor would be involved, who was supposed to be arriving. She supposed it was her own fault for taking up the challenge on the Smithsonian, but then again, she knew she would never have been able to turn it down. Much like this, really. Confusing as it all was, shrouded in secrecy and red tape, she presumed that, at some point, they'd have to tell her what it was they wanted. Given the company; she was confident to stake that it wouldn't be straight forward.

_And oh but did that thought give her a tingle. _

Agent Barton had not been incorrect in his assessment on her motivation, although she thought it was more the product of a lucky guess than a skilled interviewer. She'd seen enough of them, over the years – not too many, it was always best to cover your tracks properly – but he didn't fit the bill. She wasn't sure what fit him, actually. She'd had him pegged as an over-zealous security detail in the museum but then he had _eventually_ seen through the little girl lost routine.

Regular security didn't operate high enough on the thinking scale to see past that, usually. Then there was the bow, that was … different. Very different. She sneaked a glance sideways at him, and found him, poker faced but not sitting anywhere near as rigidly in his seat as the other guy. Somewhat of an enigma. She'd have to decide whether it was worth trying to figure him out.

Stark started tapping erratically on the table with a pencil. Purposefully without a specific rhythm, looking to wind the tension in the room even higher than it was already. Thump, thwack, ping as the metal casing at the top of the pencil glanced off the table instead of the wooden shaft.

Fury's head thumped in sympathy. Barton cracked his knuckles, glancing over the table pointedly as he did so. _Thump, thwack, TWANG._ He'd found a rubber band in his pocket as well. Doctor Foster clenched her jaw as the pencil continued to tap next to her. _Thump, thwack, ding._ He'd shot a ball bearing - retrieved from the very bottom of his jacket pocket, alongside some fluff and a months-old boiled sweet – across the table at speed towards Rogers, glancing off his water glass before the Captain had a chance to grab it.

_Slurp_. He'd unwrapped the sweet, ancient paper still stuck to it in parts, and popped it in his mouth. Smiling. And slurping. And _tapping_. Foster was staring at him, unable to fathom how such an intelligent man could possibly be so juvenile. _Slurp. Thump. Twang. _The rubber band was back. Fury's eye twitched.

_DING! _Rogers and Barton both shot up out of their seats and Fury reached across the table to Stark, who laughed, hands up. "It's not him, it's me," Foster said excitedly, waving the handheld device as it buzzed and spat and _DINGED_ loudly again. She brought it to her nose, staring down at it and fiddling knobs, adjusting, prodding –

"Jane?"

A deep voice cut through the room, and a last, slightly feeble, _ding_ faded away. The scientist finally looked up from it and took in the beast of a man stood in the doorway. She dropped the device and ran to him, throwing her arms around him – in so far as she could. He laughed, a rumbling sound, as he drew her in with one immense arm. Bending his head to the top of hers, he dropped a gentle kiss to her hair, then looked up at the rest of the room.

"So Fury, who is it that will be helping me break into Asgard?"


End file.
